The Funeral and the Texts
The funeral was a blur, arranged with chilling efficiency by my sons.
They chose the cheapest casket, the shortest service, as if eager to be done.
And now, at his grave, I clutched the phone that held an impossible message:
Don’t trust our sons.
That night, in the empty house, I searched Ernest’s desk.
Insurance policies. One had been increased from $10,000 to $150,000 just six months earlier. Another, workers’ compensation for $50,000. Two hundred thousand dollars.
A new text buzzed:
Check the bank account. See who’s been moving money.
At the bank the manager showed me statements. Thousands withdrawn over three months.
“Your husband came in person,” she said. “I think one of your sons was with him once or twice. Charles, I believe.”
Another message:
The insurance was their idea. They convinced Ernest. It was a trap.
I could no longer deny it.
